Fragments

by Morgan Gallagher

  ‘Please darling. Don’t grudge me a little happiness. Andrew is a wonderful man and he makes me happy. He makes you happy too, who do you think pays for your riding lessons?’

  Tears spilled out of Catherine’s eyes.

  ‘He cares very much for you. He bought you that lovely new bike, so you can get to the stables. I’m sure, in time, you’ll see how much he cares for you.’

  Catherine already knew how much Andrew cared for her. As she looked up at her mother’s tears she knew she couldn’t say any more: it would hurt Alma too much.

  She’d just have to put up with it, at least until she managed to leave home.

  Alma dried both their tears. She hugged Catherine a little, then pulled back.

  ‘Catherine! Have you felt how fat your back feels?’

  Catherine stared at her mother, the tears frozen in and locked down.

  ‘Come upstairs, right now. I want to see what you weigh.’

  Alma physically pulled her up the stairs by the hand, as if she was a child. She was stripped to her underwear and weighed.

  In the rage that followed, in the awful waves of screeching and pleading, begging and fury that spilled out from Alma’s mouth... in the tirade about how she was a selfish, ungrateful child, with no self-respect and no understanding of the world... Catherine really only noticed one thing. That Andrew had slipped upstairs and was standing at the bathroom doorway, peeping in, whilst Alma flew around her, arms flailing and fingers pointing. Standing, staring at her in her underwear, with that look upon his face: the look her mother never saw. She closed her eyes, and wished herself far, far away, but Alma’s voice would not let her go.

  ‘AND HOW DO YOU THINK ANY DECENT MAN WILL EVER FANCY YOU IN THAT STATE! You will NEVER get a boyfriend; no one will EVER find you attractive.’

  Catherine could only hope.

  *

  The entire office was on edge, waiting for the manager’s door to open back up. Seeing two police officers come into the building, and then go into her office had set everyone’s tongues wagging. Who was in trouble? Was something wrong? Three people had already phoned home to see if there was a problem there.

  No one had been expecting it to be about Big Cathy. She’d carried on ignoring everything as she typed away in her little booth.

  Nothing was ever about Big Cathy.

  But it was Cathy who had been called in when the door opened again. Cathy, who emerged ten minutes later, pale and shaking, to be led to a police car by the female officer. Jill, the manager, has already packed up her handbag and held her coat out to her. Cathy had nodded her thanks and then left, silent as ever.

  The ride to the hospital was somewhat surreal. All she could really hear was the news that Andrew was dead. The officers had said something about her mother, a lot about her mother, but it didn’t make any sense to her. All she could feel, all she could know, was that Andrew was dead.

  She stood in the ICU, at the bottom of her mother’s bed. Wires, lines, leads and dressings covered her mother’s body. Her legs were in traction, as was one arm. The doctor pulled her to one side, into an office, to explain it all again. He was beginning to wonder if this girl was a little slow, a little ‘special’.

  He again took her through the catalogue of injuries. That the speed with which the emergency services had got to the crash site was the only thing that had saved her mother’s life.

  That her father had died instantly and therefore had felt no pain.

  ‘He’s not my father.’ It was the only thing she kept saying, really. Did she have a guardian somewhere, someone legally responsible for her?

  Catherine just looked at him, again, in complete silence. When he ran out of things to say about her mother’s prognosis, she nodded and left without speaking.

  The law firm that handled all her step-father’s affairs managed everything very smoothly. She was very happy with them. No one was surprised that Andrew had left everything to Catherine: he’d adored her after all. Alma would have argued, no doubt, had she been able to.

  Whilst it had looked as if intensive physical therapy might improve Alma’s mental state, a year after the accident Catherine was appointed legal guardian of her mother’s affairs. There had only been one point of disagreement between the law firm and Catherine. They had resisted her impulse to care full time for her mother. Her physical disabilities were so profound, her mental state so damaged... could she not see that a high quality care facility would be better for Alma, if not Catherine? A young woman in her twenties should not have to care full time for someone unable to speak, or communicate in anyway. Someone who required a machine to breathe. Someone who was doubly incontinent and required a tube to feed.

  Someone who may live another five, ten or even twenty years, with enough ongoing care.

  She had won her argument and had the dining room converted into a room capable of supporting her mother’s medical needs. She spent many hours in the hospital, making sure Alma had the support she needed to be well enough physically to be sent home. The physiotherapist that had been employed to encourage Alma to try and talk, to try and communicate somehow, felt that Kate was a saint. Alma must have been a wonderful mother for Kate to be so devoted to her. She’d always been there, no matter what. Holding her mother’s hands down when she spasmed, wiping the tears of frustration from her eyes. No one could understand Alma the way her daughter did, and it was obvious that Alma felt the same way. Whenever anyone spoke Kate’s name out loud, Alma’s face trembled. It was heartening to see such mutual love: somewhere deep down in the scar tissue the accident had left in Alma’s brain, she still knew her daughter.

  Kate herself had obviously struggled at times. She’d resigned from her job and had lost a great deal of weight. The physio had urged her to take better care of herself: if she got ill, who was going to care for her mother? In the end, the physio had agreed with everyone else and signed Alma out to her daughter’s devoted care. Although the burden of caring for her mother would be great, the girl deserved to have her mother with her as long as she could, didn’t she?

  She said as much to the ambulance drivers when they drove away from delivering Alma to Kate’s care. It had taken two hours to transfer her the three miles from the hospital, and get everything set up. The driver commented on how nice and supportive the young girl had been, and how nice it was to see someone take on board caring for someone. The driver spoke out what everyone always thought after seeing Kate care for Alma:

  ‘She must have been one hell of a mother.’

  Kate watched the ambulance leave the driveway. She pressed a button and the gates closed and locked automatically. She switched the outside lights off.

  Opening her mother’s room, the smell hit her first. Alma had voided her bowels. Kate looked at her, smiled, and pulled on a set of disposable plastic gloves.

  ‘My my, what a terrible stench. Who could have made such a foul smell...? Did you deliberately wait until the ambulance crew had left...?’ Kate made a gagging noise as she pulled back the covers. Alma’s cheeks flamed red.

  ‘Honestly, Mother, what have you been eating? You smell like a sewer. Never mind, we’ll soon fix that.’ Kate cleaned her up quickly, using the hoist to lift up her legs as she slipped a clean adult nappy under her bottom. All the time she explained to Alma what she was doing, what a hard and tiresome task it was, and how shocking Alma’s body looked with its scars and broken bone ridges.

  ‘Good job no one will ever see those useless legs again, Mother, that’s a blessing at least.’

  She washed Alma’s face with a cold flannel and brushed through her hair, pulling out the tangles before twisting it into two tight pigtails.

  ‘Cold water is so good for closing the pores, isn’t it mother? I’ll get some of that moisturiser you like tomorrow, from the chemist. Must try and keep your skin from aging so badly. You have a shocking amount of lines and wrinkles. Monica and George are coming to see you tomorrow. I’ll make sure you’re looking your best, don
’t worry. Not a hair will be out of place.’

  She checked the machines, double checked the tubes and dressings on Alma’s arms, and smoothed down the linen coverlet.

  ‘I expect you’re very tired, after the ride in the ambulance. Best get to sleep now Mother, conserve your strength. I know it’s early but you have to get your rest. I had the curtains lined with blackout material you know, just like my bedroom. So nothing can disturb the dark, nothing to keep you awake. You’ll be fine Mother, just fine. Routine, that’s the key: routine and order. That will make everything all right, you taught me well.’

  Kate turned and left the room, not looking back as she turned off the light and closed the door.

  In the glow of the beeping machines, tears slid from Alma’s eyes.

  The Fool

  Maryam Michael woke as she always did, in the dark. She left her curtains open so that when she woke, the night was in the room with her. Sometimes this meant she awoke in perfect darkness with a cloudy sky robbing all the night of light. At other times she woke in brilliant moonlight, so bright she could see her reflection in her dressing table mirror. This morning the shallow dark of a star-studded sky greeted her, and she rose and stared out her window, beginning her day with starlight and chanting. Here, in the quiet of her country retreat, there was no artificial light on the horizon, nothing to interfere with the sky and her communion with it.

  After so many years enclosed, she had come to love the expanse of an unfettered sky. When she had left her cell behind, with all its quiet memories and soul devoted comforts, she had immediately relished the freedom of the sky. For years her sky had been small, distant, dissected into squares. A thing that she could glimpse now and then but which was out there, outwith the walls of her inner life. Now she embraced it as an equal, although she shied from that as an analogy; how could any single, insignificant human soul be equal to the sky?

  Like everything in her new life, her routine, her habit, was a mixture of old and new. Carefully preserving the aspects that she’d found useful, adding to them new rituals and experiences that enriched who she now was. Therefore when she finished her chanting and had rung the temple bell that hung at her window three times, she bowed to the sky and went through to her toilette. A warm shower, the body washed and the hair cleaned through, she returned to her boudoir to dress. Rather than the ritual of prayer that once accompanied the taking off of her night attire and its immediate replacement with her day attire, she relished the freedom to sit naked at her mirror and dance cosmetics across her skin. The lightest of touches of moisturisers and foundation, a faint blush to the cheeks, a perfect contour of shade across her storm grey eyes, the lick of dark mascara defining her long lashes and a minute sheen of soft colour across her lip.

  Her hair, as short as it ever had been, fell into perfect layers, a testament to scissors as sharp as the talent of the hairdresser that had yielded them. It required but one comb through to settle smoothly, revealing her cheekbones in a way striking to any women of her age. A cloistered youth had left her with excellent skin and when she had taken off her coif her shock of silver hair had been a surprise. Then it had been unusual for a woman to go gray so completely by the time she had entered her 40s. Now she was unusual only in that she choose not to colour it to mimic youth. Her youth still came from inside. She found that her age gave her a gravitas that she had sorely needed early in her life and valued tremendously now it had arrived. It was not something she was prepared to deny or to hide.

  She dressed in delicate satin and lace underwear, bespoke to her slender body, and finished with house pyjamas and a long house coat in linen. Today would be spent in paperwork and she would appreciate the soft warmth and flow of the casual lines. She had always enjoyed the feel of cloth as she moved and relished that she could now indulge her tastes in any fabric and colour.

  Although she rarely chose colour: her pyjamas were black and her housecoat grey. Monochrome was still a feature of her attire. She slipped soft leather slippers on and went downstairs to the kitchen. The aroma from the coffee maker drew her in and she poured herself a bowl. The timer was set so that she invariably arrived just as the last few precious drops trickled into the jug. She breathed in the warmth, holding the bowl in both hands and tip-toed over the flagstone floor, slipping into her study without waking up the Irish wolfhound that slept across the back door. Edith, her housekeeper, would wake the behemoth when she pushed open the door in a couple of hours. Once, Cullain would have woken the second she rose and would have been at the kitchen door whining and scratching when she came down. Now, even the gurgling of the machine barely caused an eyelid to flutter. He was getting old and knew he would be ignored until she’d eaten. So he stayed asleep and she got more work done: it suited them both.

  She had two reports to file for the Vatican and two articles to translate from Aramaic, both for an American university. The Aramaic texts were proving to be difficult and she put her just awake mind to them first. After an hour, when her forehead had begun to pound, she fetched more coffee and switched to sorting out the references. She hated referencing her work and always had to make herself do it as she went, in order to prevent two weeks of agony at the end. Referencing was always a time for her to consider her faults and sins; she often felt doing them was some sort of penance.

  By the time Edith arrived two hours after that, bringing fresh croissants and bread, Maryam was grey with fatigue. It was good fatigue, but her head hurt and her eyes stung. Edith tutted at her as she called her through for a warming bowl of sweet oatmeal. Maryam ignored the tutting, eating her portion whilst scratching the back of Cullain’s hairy ears. Edith was not backward in coming forward with her ideas about how hard work, tiny amounts of food and very little sleep would ruin a person’s health. Maryam, who’d found that slightly less sleep than you needed, combined with slightly less food than you needed and a good solid day’s work kept you agile and fit, ignored her. Edith fed Cullain his breakfast as Maryam finished hers by dunking a croissant in another bowl of hot coffee: sweet indulgence was good for the body and the soul.

  She changed into her outside clothes and donned her thick boots and took Cullain out for his morning tramp through the woods and hills. It was brisk and none too warm, clouds scudded by and wind pulled at them both, but it was refreshing. Cullain came alive on his walks and there was great pleasure in watching him enjoy the scents and intrigues of other wildlife and the undergrowth. Her legs were aching when she returned two hours later and the aroma of the quail Edith was preparing for luncheon was delectable. A shower, and then an hour or so of more translation before eating... and then she could spend the afternoon reading for leisure. As she started up the stairs the phone rang. Edith popped her head around the kitchen door as she answered and tutted. The switch to Italian and her tone were unmistakable. Edith returned to the kitchen, clanging pots and pans. Madame was going on her travels again, and this lunch and the dinner she was half way through preparing would now be fed to the beast. How on earth was she going to get her layabout son to walk Madame’s wolf dog at this time of year?

  When Maryam finished the conversation, she phoned the local taxi company and requested they pick her up in thirty minutes, to drive her to Marseille. Edith did some more banging as she packed a decent lunch for Madame.

  Thirty minutes was tight, but she could make one of the afternoon’s TGVs to Lille if she hurried. Maryam downloaded the files the Cardinal promised had been sent through, and packed up her electronics and their all important leads: laptop, phone, chargers and electricity converters for the various European voltages. She showered the sweat off, dressed, and packed her clothing and personal items in under ten minutes. Her work kit was always full and ready to go; Edith took the three cases outside whilst she hugged Cullain goodbye. Cullain whimpered and look sorrowful but was asleep before she left the kitchen. She picked up her heavy wool coat with its scarves and gloves in the pockets as she left. The driver was eager, intent on carving a few minu
tes off the hour drive; the local drivers loved to compete on such runs. Edith looked grim as Maryam waved goodbye to her and Maryam felt that grimness inside: she detested being called to work on a murder.

  She munched on her luncheon as they drove, sharing it with Alain, the driver. Edith had packed enough for three. They made the TVG comfortably and Maryam booked through to London on the train she had aimed for. Lille was a faster journey and transfer than Paris; she should be in London by late evening. She set up in the business lounge before they left and was able to call ahead and give her estimated arrival time before switching her phone off.

  Her slender frame in the luxurious chairs allowed her to settle diagonally into her chair, with the laptop screen facing away from the casual eye. She’d positioned herself at the far end of the carriage, able to see all who approached in one direction and the opening door to her side warning her in the other. She closed the screen down at the stations: nothing of what she was viewing could, or should, be seen by the casual eye.

  What she was viewing was disturbing enough in print; thankfully there were few photographs. That there were photographs at all warned her that some political connection had already been brought into play.

  The murder had occurred in the Church of the Mother of All Sorrows, in Peckham, London. A young man had been spread out on the altar and his body slashed. He was naked and had been laid out in the shape of the crucifixion. A series of long cuts had caused a bleed out. The photos showed blood running off the altar and pooling on the floor. From the amount of blood, Maryam was sure the young man had died from exsanguination: he’d literally bled to death on the altar. He was seventeen years old.

  The slashes were neither random nor without meaning. They slid in shallow swoops that had encouraged slow, deliberate, bleeding. They were also words that had been scrawled onto his flesh. It wasn’t English or Latin, or even Greek, but Arabic script. The translation she’d received from Rome suggested that the writing stated that the man had died as he was a pig and therefore unclean. Not entirely trusting either the transcription from the wounds, or the translation, she spent a good hour working through the photos and sketches made by the police, piecing together what she hoped was a rather more accurate version. The script claimed that the man had been cleansed and made mention of a Jinn. There were also random words on his limbs: swine, defiler, heretic, but the gist was that he had been killed to cleanse him of his stain. She was unsure if it was ‘stain’, and hoped she could get a clearer understanding of the writing at some point.